


Hymns for a Feasting Day

by ProphetDreaming



Category: Fallen London | Echo Bazaar
Genre: Blow Jobs, Embassy Agent!Deacon, Exceptional Story Spoilers (Fallen London), Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, M/M, Other, POV Second Person, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Religion Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-08
Updated: 2019-08-08
Packaged: 2020-08-11 17:10:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20157133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProphetDreaming/pseuds/ProphetDreaming
Summary: He followed you to Hell once. Now, he is at your side again. His faith in you is unshakeable, though he doesn't like being left alone for too long.





	Hymns for a Feasting Day

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sharkie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sharkie/gifts), [CilantroTheAuthor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CilantroTheAuthor/gifts).

> Taking place after the events of For All the Saints Who From Their Labours Rest, from September 2018's Exceptional Story, with references to a later one. I may have had to fudge the dates a little to make this work during Feast of the Exceptional Rose. This is largely substantless fluff, but I hope you enjoy.

The streets of London are clogged with masked merrymakers, drunk on wine and love--or what passes for love during the Feast, anyway. All manner of gifts pass easily from one reveler to another--roses with petals black as night, jars of teeth lovingly pried from loose gums, stolen kisses pressed from hand to mouth. You could have your pick of flirtations, but today, something holds you back.

One figure stands apart from the sea of masqueraders, watching you with a pair of fine dark eyes that jolts you out of your languid stupor. Though he, too, is concealed behind a mask of the rose, you have little trouble recognizing the curve of his lips, the upturned tilt of his chin. It is unmistakably the Intrepid Deacon.

He is different, his dark blond hair made darker with pomade and slicked away from his forehead, and he’s lost some of the boyish roundness to his cheeks. A shining line of buttons march down the front of his cassock now, subtle enough to the layman, but you recognize nevercold brass when you see it.

There’s something new, too, about the way he’s standing: assuredly, with less of that shy coltishness that had been so endearing during your first meeting. He holds himself apart from the festivities, an observer, not a participant, but when your gazes meet, his reserve drops and his eagerness is barely restrained as he picks his way through the crowd towards you. “Hello,” he says breathlessly when he is close enough to be heard, his voice thick with emotion. “I’ve wanted to see you again for so long.” His fingers brush yours as if he couldn’t help himself, and a faint tinge of pink warms his face. The way he’s beaming at you, sweet and a little nervous, makes him look more like himself again. 

In the relative quiet of the pub, and he tells you about his work at the Embassy and it is clear that it strains him to tread the line between a man of the cloth and one in the employ of the devils. "His Eminence doesn't like me walking around in this, of course," he says, smoothing the front of his cassock. "But the Marchmont name still means something, and they can't _ prove _ that I’ve--er--'gone infernal'. And the Embassy is starting to see I have my uses.” His smile changes, angelic and radiant. You worry a little for the poor devils. Your worry is redirected for yourself when he brings up rumors of another foiled infernal plot, this time around the excavations of some ruins.

“Rumor is buzzing around the Embassy that someone caught His Eminence working with a devil. A devil! One of the old guard, but still. Can you imagine?” His eyes are wide and provoking, but the corner of his lip quivers, as if he knows exactly the part you played in in Southwark’s latest scheme against the Republic and the fate of the Turncoat. Devil take the boy, was he _ teasing _you?

You demur, you prevaricate. You express shock, flutter your lashes ridiculously, and declare your innocence entirely in the whole affair. The Deacon loses his composure and laughs outright, his face lighting up and shedding the shadows he'd picked up during your time apart. You resolve to banish them entirely as long as he is in your company and pour him more wine.

And what of him? You express the hope that he’s found his path in the world, and companionship among his peers. He’d lacked no conviction about it when you parted.

His face clouds over a fraction, and his features close up again into that detached look you immediately decide you hated. Bollocks. 

“Everything you and I saw in the fields of roses before the walls, those soldiers we found...someone needs to remind Londoners the folly of going to war against Hell's armies," the Deacon finally replies. "Remind them what happened the last time, to people like my brother. I am working with a purpose," he sighs, "if not the one I always dreamed of." One hand strays up to his bare throat, where a cross once hung. He seems to reach for it unthinkingly, and when his hand met open air, he looks startled and guilty at once, and laughs a little awkwardly. 

"Old habits die hard. Some mornings, I wake up and wonder if any of it was real. The fields, the glass violets, the Chandler, even you, on that train...It all seems like a distant dream.” He trails off, eyes going distant and sad again. 

Well, now, that won't do at all. This calls for drastic measures.

You tangle your fingers in the front of his robes and drag him towards you across the table, the better to remind him that the dream needn’t be so distant at all. The startled moan he makes feeds muffled into your mouth and then he is kissing you back eagerly, his fingers sliding up your neck, your hair. You suddenly think of the desperate way he'd kissed you at your last parting--as if he'd been trying to sear your image into his memories. As if he’d been saying goodbye for the last time. You tighten your grip on him and pull him closer. The barkeep is scandalized.

Back in your lodgings, there is nothing distant or detached about the way he kisses you, hungry and raw. His reserve melts away under your hands like frost in spring, until he is pliant and warm beneath your mouth. He tastes the same: tea sweetened with honey, and a hint of lemon, but where before he'd been clumsy and untutored, now he was all hands and tongue and sharp hips eagerly pressed flush against the length of you. The nevercold brass scorches your fingertips when you fumble them open, but it is nothing compared to the heat of his skin laid bare. You press him into the door, and leave his cheap mask of the rose crumpled on the floor as you slip down onto your knees and open the fastenings to his pants with brisk efficiency. Musk and salt coat your tongue as you slide him into your mouth, hot and heavy, and immediately his fingers dig into your scalp and an unstifled gasp leaves his lips.

You show him wordlessly all the ways you've missed him, and you bring him to prayers even though you're the one kneeling. He can't help the little, erratic jerk of his hips as he thrusts into the wet warmth of your mouth. When you glance up, the Deacon is panting softly, his eyes hooded, his hair in disarray and his cheeks stained a fetching shade of red. You like the sight of him like this, disheveled and undone, far more than that carefully put together affectation you'd seen in the street, and bob your head enthusiastically down his cock until he’s mingling adulations in your name with appeals to a higher authority. 

You make your way to the bed, eventually. Your neighbors downstairs don’t thank you for it.

After you’ve both expended yourself, you drape yourself lasciviously over his limp frame. One of your stockings has flung itself over the lampshade becomingly and you consider leaving it there permanently as you laze in the afterglow. You've long divested the pair of you of cumbersome vestments, and all that lovely flesh is laid bare, slick and soft under your grazing hand. You make the happy discovery of his virile recovery in the nest of his groin and raise your brows, impressed.

The Deacon opens wine-dark eyes and peers at you, grinning sheepishly. "Sorry. I overindulge, sometimes." There is a secret joke in that mischievous smile. 

No matter. Tradition must be upheld, after all, and tradition dictates a second round. For luck, of course.

It is too warm by half when you've finished him off again, but he nestles affectionately into the curve of your body until you're fitted together. His heart is still singing erratically under your palm when he presses his face into your neck and mumbles, "They want me in London mostly. I know you can’t always be here, but...don’t stay away too long?”

Promises are difficult things to keep in the Neath, but your traitor mouth races ahead of your traitor heart and seals your fate.


End file.
